Loving Liza Jane (6 page)

“Miss Browning herself is quite charming,” she hastened. “Nothing against her.”

“Of course not.”

Liza ambled toward the bedroom, away from his watchful eye. Fortunately, this room held no disappointing discoveries. In fact, its window remained intact, much to her surprise. Strange how a little thing like a window could please her so. On the furthest wall stood an armoire. While it had seen better days, it would serve her well for storing what items of clothing she’d brought with her.

As if reading her mind, Mr. Broughton nodded at the piece. “That old cupboard came over on a boat from England. My grandfather brought it when he and Grandmother migrated to America. It’s a good, sturdy piece of furniture.”

“I can see that.” She moved closer to sweep a hand over its dusty exterior. “You descend from England, then?”

“I do. In fact, I came over with my parents when I was about ten.”

“That would explain your accent.”

“People say they detect a slight one.”

Although the room lacked bedsprings and a dresser, she didn’t mind. With the money she’d been saving from previous jobs and that that Uncle Gideon had given her to get started with, there would be enough to purchase inexpensive bedroom furniture and a few other essential pieces for the rest of the house. It appeared she would need a table for certain and at least two chairs, one for her, and one for a guest—if she ever made a friend, that is.

“This room won’t require as much work,” she said, her spirits slightly lifted. Although the floor was warped, it didn’t show any cracks between the boards. A good rug would cover up the worst of its flaws.

Mr. Broughton stepped into the room then, ducking in the doorway, the full height of his body shadowing her petite frame. Never before had she felt so exceedingly small. She turned her attention to the rest of the room, giving him plenty of latitude to move about.

“No, it’s the rest of the place that will take some work. Now that you’re here I’ll call on Thom Hayes and Willie Jenkins to lend a hand. It will take some time, however.”

“Now that I’m here? Hadn’t you thought I might want to move in upon my arrival?”

He chuckled. “I guess things don’t get done near as quickly in these parts as they do where you’re from, ma’am. Patience is a virtue, you know. Or haven’t you heard that?” The twinkle was back again, along with a twisted grin.

“Of course I’ve heard it. I believe you’ll find it in the Bible.”

His laughter intensified. “The Bible, you say? Do you read it much?”

“Of course. I read it every day,” she said, deeply annoyed.

“Ah, that’s good to know. Hickman will do well to have a Christian teacher for a change.”

She straightened, well pleased that he’d commented on her spiritual status.

“How familiar are you with the Word of God?” he asked.

She shifted her weight, nervous under his perusal. “Enough, I suppose.”

One keen eye favored her with a wink as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, if you were as familiar as you claim, you would know that the old adage does not come from the Bible but from Chaucer’s writings, The Canterbury Tales. But perhaps that was what you meant to say?”

Liza’s face colored. “I suppose you’ve cornered me on that one, Mr. Broughton. I don’t claim to be a literary historian. I see I shall have to brush up on my facts if I am to converse with you.”

“Not at all,” he answered, further amused. “I doubt you’re the only one who has ever mistaken the origin of some well-known phrase.” He dipped his head politely, an act that put her on the defensive, particularly since his roguish smile seemed accompanied by mischief. What was this man about?

Tamping down the temptation to expel a nasty comeback, she merely asked, “How long before you begin work on this place?”

“I’ve already told you, it will take a few days. I have fields to tend to, my children to look after, supplies to be bought…”

“I should think your wife would watch over your children,” she blurted.

Again, the shaded expression surfaced, but he offered no explanation.

“As for your fields and the supplies, I could offer you some money…”

He held up a hand to halt her. “Not necessary.”

“If I’m to live here, I intend to do my part. If that includes paying you for the repair of this—this...” Helpless to find a single word to describe the place, she left it unfinished.

“The matter will be handled.”

“Regardless, I don’t intend to live off the fruits of others.”

“You won’t be. You’ll be working it off by teaching our children,” he argued.

“Well, then I’ll help you do the work. It’s only right,” she stated.

“I think not,” he said, a muscle in his jaw flicking.

“Why not? I can do hard labor.”

He gave Liza a quick once-over. “Pardon me, ma’am, but you’re a mite of a woman.”

“I’m perfectly capable of doing any job you might hand over to a man.”

With that, he burst into a round of riotous laughter, the sound bubbling from his chest and seeming to bounce off the cabin’s rickety walls. She supposed it had been an absurd statement, but certainly not that funny.

When he finally composed himself enough to speak, he merely said, “I’ll be starting on the work sometime this week—or next.” Turning, he headed for the door to the cabin.

“This week or next? But—why not today?” she asked, following directly on his heels, frustrated that he didn’t see the matter as urgent.

He stopped in midstride and turned. “Patience is a virtue, ma’am. Remember?”

“I remember, and for the moment, I have all the patience I can possibly muster. I have just traveled several hundred miles to reach this place, Mr. Broughton. I would appreciate a home of my own to settle into before school starts.”

He cocked his handsome head at her. “Ah, well, that could be a problem.” Then, glancing out the hole in the wall where once a window had been, he asked, “You see those fields out there?”

“Of course,” she answered, following his gaze.

“There’s corn out there that needs harvesting. Some of it is rotting already. Corn is not my only crop, either. There’s plowing and haying, not to mention cows that need milking, and a couple of hogs to fatten up before slaughtering day.”

When she failed to show him sympathy, he looked toward the ceiling with a sigh. “What I’m trying to say, Miss Merriwether…what is your first name?”

“Eliza—Eliza Jane. Liza to my closest friends. Miss Merriwether to you,” she tacked on.

He narrowed his midnight blues on her. “What I’m trying to say, Liza,” he carefully articulated with a hint of spite, “is that you came at a busy time in my life.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Broughton.”

“Ben will suffice,” he reminded.

“School will be starting soon, and since you knew I was coming, I should think you would have planned ahead.”

He bowed his head and murmured something. A hasty prayer, perhaps? “I’ll gather some men and start as soon as possible. That’s all I can tell you.

“I’ll have to find someone to watch my girls,” he added as an afterthought while turning around. “The woman who watches over them is leaving soon.”

“I should think your wife…”

He offered her a cynical look. “I am no longer married, so you can stop referring to my wife. She died over a year ago.”

The simple statement stopped her in her tracks. “Oh,” was all she managed for the moment.

I have a classroom to organize and lessons to prepare for, but I suppose I could find time to help with your children,” she offered, folding her hands at her petite waist.

He noticed that several strands of golden brown hair had pulled loose of the little knot she’d piled on top of her head. He wondered what she’d do if he simply tucked them back behind her ear. “No need. I’ll manage my personal affairs.”

He had to get out of here, he told himself. The cabin was downright stifling, and the little woman inside it didn’t help matters. He hadn’t wanted to mention Miranda’s passing, but now that he had, he prayed her name would not come up again.

“Do you have anyone in mind—to watch your children, that is?”

“No—yes—no; well, sort of.” He couldn’t lie. “I have several women in mind I’m about to approach on the matter.” The truth was he had a few, not several. “They all have broods of their own and I’m thinking that adding two more to the litter won’t make that much difference to them.”

There was the Johnson clan up the road. Mrs. Johnson had five little ones and another on the way. He seriously doubted she’d want to take on two more, but it couldn’t hurt to ask. Then there were the Bergens, the next farm over. They had four, but they were all very young. Their son, Thomas, a mere nine, was the oldest of the children. Mrs. Bergen likely had all she could handle right now.

He’d thought about the widow Riley, but he was afraid, after the suggestion Mrs. Granger had made about courting the woman, she just might get designs on him. There was always the mail-order bride concept, but that option was a last resort.

Liza tilted her head at him, as if to assess his situation. “Are you certain? The truth is, I want you to finish this place, and if watching over your children will speed things up, well…”

“No. Mrs. Granger will be around a bit longer, and as you said, you have to tend to your classroom.”

“How old are your children, Mr. Broughton?”

“Molly is fourteen months and Lili is seven. They’re a handful, but very smart.”

The teacher’s face brightened. “I’m sure they are.” Then, catching a hurried glance out the window, she said, “Well, I best be going. I have important things to see to.”

They exchanged strained smiles.

“I’ll stop by in a few days to check your progress,” she added. “I should think you’d be well on your way by then.”

Demanding little woman.

He watched her gather up her skirts and march down the slanted pathway toward her rented rig. She’d have to buy one of those getups if she planned to move out here. The three-mile walk was simple enough on warm, sunny days but downright bone-chilling in the winter months.

He wondered if she had a clue of what lay ahead. Something told him she would learn as she went. She seemed made of tougher stuff than he’d expected. On the outside she was sweet and fragile looking, but on the inside he suspected her blood was mixed with grit and gravel.

“Good-bye, Mr. Broughton,” she said from her high perch on the wagon.

Leaning against the little cabin’s exterior, he managed a grunt and a simple nod of the head. He could see already that the woman was going to rub him the wrong way.

As Eliza Jane Merriwether maneuvered the wagon back toward town, he mumbled a hasty prayer. “Lord, give me strength.”

That evening, after putting both his girls down in the little room next to his, Lili on the cot, and Molly in the crib, he took a strong cup of coffee and pulled a chair up to the table.

The day had been sweltering, but nighttime breezes now wafted through the open windows of his sturdy house, cooling and lending comfort. He tipped the chair back on its hind legs and hoisted his feet atop the table, something Miranda would never have allowed. Even as he did so, he had to push down a guilty conscience. He could almost hear her scolding tone now. “Benjamin Broughton,” she would say, “you get them boots off that table straightaway. We’re gonna be eatin’ ar breakfast on that table.”

A slow smile formed and lingered as the memories did.

He’d met his Miranda at a barn dance when he was nineteen. The entire town seemed to have shown up for the affair, the nighttime celebration of the day’s barn raising. Glancing about the place that night, and looking for his buddies, Rocky Callahan and James Buchanan, he’d spotted Miranda Franklin instead. It was the Franklin family who’d lost their barn to a fire along with countless livestock. As was the custom, the men and boys from all across the region showed up the following week to raise another barn. He and his aging grandfather had been among them.

He’d caught glimpses of the Franklin girl that day and thought she’d noticed him, too, but always when he’d sent a special nod or smile her way, she’d dropped her head in a skittish manner, picked up her flouncy skirt, and turned away, as if a mere glance at him were too embarrassing. She was a shy one back then.

Well, that night he meant to change things. There she was standing as pretty as a picture in front of the punch table, golden curls hugging the curve of her neck, a fitted, flowery dress accenting her tiny waist. Mustering up all his courage, he’d approached her, afraid she’d run the other way. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d smiled and given him a curtsy. One look into her clear blue eyes had been like seeing the ocean for the very first time. Pricked by Cupid’s arrow, he’d felt the pangs of young love.

Ben smiled at the simple remembrance. It hadn’t taken them long to figure out they belonged together, and so they’d married in June of the following year.

That was ten years ago, although it felt like two entire lifetimes. He was a mere twenty-nine, but he could have been forty-nine for all the pain and suffering he’d endured in her passing. She’d been sickly during her second pregnancy, and when the complications of childbirth set in, there was little the doctor could do for her. Her resistance was too low, Doc Randolph had said. In the end, she’d bled to death and left him with an infant daughter and a six year old that he hadn’t the slightest notion how to care for.

Now, here he was, fourteen months later, barely managing. If nothing else, he’d learned to place his faith and trust in his heavenly Father.

Reaching for his tattered Bible, he opened it to the passage he’d been studying. In the margin, he’d scrawled, “The sorrows of death encompassed me, and the pains of hell found me: I found trouble and sorrow. Then called I upon the name of the Lord; O Lord, I beseech thee, deliver my soul. Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; yea, our God is merciful. Psalm 116:3–5.”

He’d penned the words just after putting his newborn infant into her crib and his wife in her grave. Emotions he’d labored long and hard to keep under lock and key had gushed forth that night, as if a mighty dam had finally broken free. In his misery, he’d sought strength in God’s Word and found it.